


the bell tolls

by MemeKonMCU (MemeKonYA)



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Feelings, Femslash February, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied Loki/Thor (Marvel), Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 16:50:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13685754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemeKonYA/pseuds/MemeKonMCU
Summary: “Sooooo...” the valkyrie drags the word out, and leans onto the table, her vambraces clanking against it, “where have you been exactly, while Asgard was consumed by the flames of Ragnarok and all that fun stuff?”“And where were you, valkyrie, during the Svartalfheim attack on Asgard that claimed our queen’s life?” Sif fires back, leaning onto the table herself, eyes roaming all over the valkyrie’s face.“This garbage dump called Sakaar,” she says then, and there’s a smile that’s as sharp as the edge of a warrior’s blade on her face, and the way she taps her fingers against the table is a mixture of playful and martial, somehow, in its rhythm, “we should visit. They have great booze, if nothing else.”





	the bell tolls

**Author's Note:**

> I totally handwaved a lot of shit in regards to canon here, oops.  
> Also, unbeta'ed.

“Sooooo...” the valkyrie drags the word out, and leans onto the table, her vambraces clanking against it, “where have you been exactly, while Asgard was consumed by the flames of Ragnarok and all that fun stuff?”

“And where were you, valkyrie, during the Svartalfheim attack on Asgard that claimed our queen’s life?” Sif fires back, leaning onto the table herself, eyes roaming all over the valkyrie’s face.

“This garbage dump called Sakaar,” she says then, and there’s a smile that’s as sharp as the edge of a warrior’s blade on her face, and the way she taps her fingers against the table is a mixture of playful and martial, somehow, in its rhythm, “we should visit. They have great booze, if nothing else.” 

Sif’s taken aback by that; any other warrior she’d met in her time fighting for Asgard and serving the crown would’ve recoiled in disgust at the mere insinuation of such cowardice, or even shown themselves mortally and grovelingly ashamed. 

Valkyrie tap, tap, taps her finger instead, holds that smile that is as much as a weapon as any Sif has used to deal killing blows to her enemies and gives her an appreciative once over that makes heat spread through her cheeks and all down her neck.

“Brunnhilde,” the valkyrie says, then, apropos of nothing, and her eyes snap back up to meet Sif’s. 

A tingling sensation joins the heat. 

“Brunnhilde?”

“My name,” she says, and leans back on her chair then, throwing an arm over the back of it, spreading her legs in a way that has Sif looking at the length of her. 

“Sif,” she replies, politeness drilled into her as a maiden.

“A pleasure. I think we’ll get along great, you and I,” the valkyrie— _Brunnhilde_ , says, and the glint in her eyes is equal parts dangerous and mischievous. 

Sif feels herself transported back in time to when she was barely tall enough to reach her mother’s bosom, hair in an eternal state of disarray despite her nursemaids’ best efforts, always ready to get in trouble with Thor ( _and Loki_ , a part of her mind betrays), ready to attempt to sneak into Idunn’s orchard, or to do any other such childish mischief— 

—but she also feels a coil in her gut, tightening in a way that isn’t altogether unpleasant

 

“I see that Hel doesn’t take back what it spits out,” Sif says, looking Loki up and down.

“I was never technically dead. Anyway, always a pleasure to see you, lady Sif,” Loki replies, with a charming and delighted smile that Sif has learned to read over the years for its multiple meanings.

There is mischief in this one, but strangely enough, Sif can find no malice in it. There is even a glimmer of honesty, as if Loki was actually happy to see her again, in some way.

“I hear you’ve been doing heroic deeds for the midgardians since you departed from Asgard,” he says, and gestures towards a chair in front of him, magnanimously. 

Sif gives him a pointed look, but still sits down, and takes a cup of a strong, fragrant infusion, when he levitates it towards her with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“I heard you have finally decided to stop being a deceitful little—”

“ _That_ depends on who you are talking to,” Loki interrupts, and with another little gesture there’s a small, ornate sugar bowl with a little spoon inside it hovering in front of her. “I’m sure if you ask the right people you’ll hear wonderful stories about how much of a lying, conniving, cheating bastard I still am. One? Two? Three, perhaps? You used to have a certain craving for sweetness as a young maiden.”

Sif hums.

“You had a fondness for sweets too, if memory serves me right, especially if those sweets were stolen from the kitchens when the queen forbid you to eat any more of them,” she says, and it’s possibly the most cordial conversation she has had with Loki not just since he fell from the Bifrost, but since they grew out of their childish deeds. 

She has seen Thor now, has seen the scars, has seen the pain, has seen the way responsibility falls over him like a too heavy cloak that he wasn’t quite ready to wear; but she can also see something that hasn’t been there in some time. Something that Sif had believed lost to Thor’s teenage years. A softness, a playful edge.

And she knows she has Loki to thank for that. She knows what Loki has always meant to Thor, saw firsthand what losing him ( _twice_ ) did to him, and for all the terrible crimes Loki has committed, she can still find a part of herself that wants him to be true, that wants him to stay by Thor’s side, and help him carry this immense burden that has fallen to him.

The little spoon vibrates, looking as though it is waking itself from its stupor, and then it’s serving sugar into her drink, without waiting for her answer. Three spoonfuls.

“Memory does serve you right,” Loki agrees, and there’s something in the corners of his mouth that belies the nonchalance that he keeps trying to portray as he smiles at her and sips his own cup of fragrant tea. 

Sif hums again, takes the cup up to her nose, and inhales the fumes from it.

It smells like queen Frigga’s private gardens used to when spring came around. A scent that brings to mind the sun and the trees blooming, and the way the flowers used to feel to the touch. How much simpler were things back then, when the queen let them all run around her feet, taking chaos with them where they went, how much simpler life was when their biggest concern was fighting each other. 

She drinks.

 

“You are keeping an eye on him, aren’t you brother?” Sif asks as she approaches Heimdall.

“As much as is possible. There are things, however, that even I can’t see,” Heimdall tells her.

He turns around when she’s behind him, and the warmth in his golden eyes is one of the best things she has experienced since leaving Asgard. Those eyes, that affection, remind her that wherever he is, there will be a home for her to return to.

They stand like that for a couple of seconds, taking in the sight of the other as the stars and planets reflect lights upon them from the window in Heimdall’s quarters. 

And then they are in each other’s arms, locked in a tight embrace.

“Brother,” Sif says, and she fights a losing battle against the knot in her throat, “I missed you. I wish I could have been with you when—”

“You never left me,” Heimdall replies, and his deep voice is soft and full of love and the same exact warmth of his gaze, “I have been with you. And you have been with me.”

And so it has been, she realizes.

And so it will always be.

 

“You don’t think he has something up his sleeve this time?” She asks later, after they have both wiped their tears and their snot, and laughed at each other’s swollen faces in the way she’s only ever seen other siblings do. 

“I think he _always_ has something up his sleeve,” Heimdall confides, like a secret he has never told anyone before, “but whatever is up his sleeve right now, I don’t see it being akin to what he has done before. I think Thor has touched him in a way he failed to do in the past. As far as my eyes can see, Loki stands by him.”

“Things have changed since we last saw each other,” she says then, almost in a murmur. “There is no Asgard, no throne to swear loyalty to. The Warriors Three are gone.”

“Not everything has changed,” Heimdall offers, and he softly presses his shoulder against hers, and she knows it’s his way of comforting her for loss, “we have our people. And we have a worthy king, who has learned from his mistakes. And I know there is nothing that will abate the sorrow of losing a friend, but The Warriors Three—along with the others who fought Hela— have risen to Valhalla.”

“I know,” she acknowledges, voice barely more than a whisper, “I know.”

“And not every change has to be an end. Not every change has to lead to grief and despair.”

Sif makes a noncommittal sound to that. 

“You met Brunnhilde,” he says after a few seconds of silence. 

Sif’s cheeks grow warm.

“I did. I never imagined I would ever meet a valkyrie in my lifetime,” she replies, play-acting. 

If Heimdall will talk in riddles, then Sif will do the same. 

They grew up playing the same games, by the same rules, and Sif has always been a sore loser.

Heimdall just laughs at her, full and joyous, and with just a little bit of brotherly mocking, the kind that is well-meaning but incredibly obnoxious. The kind that nobody would ascribe to Heimdall, The Protector of the Realms, Heimdall, The Watcher of Worlds.

Sif has always known him better.

 

“So he’s your brother, huh,” Brunnhilde says, and the smile on her is a wicked thing.

“Yes,” she replies, because what sense would there be in lying. 

“I can see the family resemblance,” she says after giving her another once over. “You’re both very intense, dutiful. Tall, too.”

Sif doesn’t say anything to that, just turns her gaze back to their makeshift training grounds, eyes on a promising girl that is all fury as she wields her blunt weapon, all speed. Thor has told her she’s an orphan, and full of sadness, and Sif can see it in the way she holds herself. 

“And hot. Can’t forget the hotness,” Brunnhilde drops, then, as though she had never paused at all.

Sif turns to look at her, with cheeks ablaze and an itch running up all through her, but Brunnhilde just smiles at her with that edge and wickedness, and a glint in her eyes that sets the core of her on fire, and then she’s walking away, towards their charges.

“You’re messing up your footwork, Feisty,” she calls as she goes, loud enough to be heard over the clattering of weapons and the noises from all the other practice matches, and the girl Sif had been watching stops and looks down at her feet.

Sif watches as she works the girl through some basic drills, putting emphasis on form, and she watches as the girl follows, determined, face serious but bright when she earns Brunnhilde’s praise.

 

“How much did you embarrass yourself when you found out she was a valkyrie?” She asks, mocking, as she puts her feet on Thor’s desk.

Thor puts his own next to hers, and looks up at the ceiling.

“I _might_ have made a fool of myself.”

“Oh, _that_ bad,“ she jests, and chuckles when Thor tries to knock her feet down with his.

“We grew up hearing about the valkyrie and their epic battles and their service to our realm. I think I am justified in being a little… starry eyed.” He knocks his own feet together a couple of times, and Sif smiles at the boyish gesture, reminded of impertinent teenager he had once upon been, lacking all sorts of manners. “They seemed larger than life, like Valhalla was made for the likes of them.”

Sif makes a noise in agreement.

“And I might have tried to look cool in front of her and ended up smashing my own face in with a ball.”

Sif bursts out laughing, almost falling off her chair. She holds a hand tight to her stomach as she guffaws, and tears leak down the corners of her eyes. 

“May I remind you you are laughing at your _king_?” Thor tries to knock her feet down again, but when she chances a glance his way, through half-closed eyes, he’s smiling at her, with his one visible eye crinkled in amusement. 

Sif lets herself laugh and then chuckle until she’s pausing for breath.

“Oh, excuse me, _your majesty_ , I’ll do the proper thing and go laugh behind your back, as court tradition dictates.” She returns the smile, her eyes crinkling too.

“I’m glad to have you back, Sif.” His voice is softer as he says this, and Sif doesn’t need all the hundreds of years she has had by his side to put his tone apart, and reach the grief in its core. It’s like hers. They have always been too alike, in all the right and wrong ways. “Having you standing by my side makes the ship feel a little more like home.” 

“I’m glad to be back home, too,” she says, and then, trying to imbue her voice with as much certainty and strength as she can, “I am sure they all watch over us in pride from the majestic hall, as we rebuild ourselves, as you lead our people.”

“As _we_ lead our people,” Thor corrects, “a king needs good counsel, and I’d be a fool to miss yours.”

“You are right,” she replies, nodding, affecting a certain thoughtfulness, “we wouldn’t want our king to accidentally maim himself trying to impress a dignitary.”

This time Thor _does_ knock her feet off the table, and when she loses her balance and falls to the floor in a heap, his laugh is buoyant and noisy enough to be heard outside and down the hall.

She kicks his chair, from the floor, and smirks when he makes an undignified sort of yelp as it topples over and he falls just next to her, in a similar sprawl of limbs. 

“You have never heard about revenge being a dish best served cold, then?” He asks, in a huff.

“I’d rather leave those machinations to people better suited to them.” She stares pointedly at the chair Thor had been sitting on, lying on the floor next to him, plush and too fancy to suit Thor’s tastes with its green and golden upholstery. 

Thor follows her gaze and goes quiet.

“Do you—”

“I want to.”

Sif hums. 

“I guess that will have to be enough.”

“Thank you.”

They stay there, lying on their backs on the floor, for some time, sharing a comfortable silence.

“So, I heard you and Brunnhilde—”

“Not you too.”

Thor laughs again, and Sif punches him on the shoulder, but feels touched by the mirth of the sound regardless.

She has missed this. 

 

“Your friend the lord of thunder thinks we are fucking.” That smile. Again. Every time. And it still stabs Sif through with something hot and prickling, that refuses to go away.

“I thought you considered him a friend too.” _It’s not cowardice_ , she thinks to herself as she goes back to inspecting all the weapons before putting them back in their racks, _it’s not cowardice_.

Brunnhilde snorts, and Sif feels the tip of a finger touching her arm. Every hair on it stands on it, electrified, and Sif does an extremely terrible job of containing a shudder and a gasp.

“Uh-huh.” She chuckles, and Sif’s body is one single taut muscle, waiting to uncoil. One single mass of nerve endings right where Brunnhilde is touching her, light as a feather. “That’s what I thought.”

The feather touch of her finger turns into her hand curling around her upper arm, and Sif sucks in a breath, and a sword clatters to the floor.

“This is flattering,” Brunnhilde says then, and Sif turns to glare down at her. 

“What do you want?” It comes out a little angrier than she intends it to, words defensive and hard. 

“The same thing _you_ want,” she replies, an eyebrow arched, “but I can admit it. Is this some crisis of yours? Or are you—”

“I’m not one for fleeting dalliances.” There is no sense in attempting to keep up any sort of ruse, under the scrutiny of Brunnhilde’s gaze—much more observant than it would appear at first glance—, no point to beating around the bush. 

“Oh.” Brunnhilde seems surprised at her honesty, and her hand drops from Sif’s arm. 

They stand there, at an impasse, until they hear the distinct sound of dozens of feet approaching, and the accompanying disembodied voices.

 

When she opens her door, it’s to the last person she would have expected to come searching for her.

“Loki.”

“No need to glare at me. I swear I come bearing nothing but good intentions. The best, even.”

Sif raises an eyebrow at him, but still lets him squeeze his way inside. 

She crosses her arms and stares at Loki, who takes in the meager contents of her quarters, before looking back at her, hands clasped behind his back.

She raises her other eyebrow.

“So hospitable. I’m here to— offer an olive branch, as it were.”

She leans her back on the closed door.

“An olive branch?”

“Yes. We will spend quite some time in this ship, and then an even longer time rebuilding Asgard. I know you won’t trust me, but it would be a step in the right direction if you wouldn’t wish for my sudden, horrifying death.”

“I don’t wish for that.” 

“Oh, I know. You love my brother far too much for that.”

“And I somehow have a leftover fondness for _you_ , despite all the madness and all the pain that you’ve caused,” she admits. 

“Oh,” Loki replies, looking shocked at that revelation. “Well, that is— that is nice.”

“Olive branch,” she reminds, because she does not have it in her to do this with him. Despite it being true that she still has affection for him, there is also an undercurrent of anger, and that will possibly stay there for a long time to come. 

“Oh, yes.” He looks as though he is considering his words for a couple of seconds. Finally, he says, “she had a partner. A fellow valkyrie. She fell during the battle with Hela. After that, she spent years in Sakaar trying to drink herself into forgetting.”

“This is—”

“—an invasion of her privacy? Yes. Definitely. You don’t want to know how I found out. But this is information useful to you.” His face makes a sort of journey through emotions then, before he sighs. “This might be an olive branch to her too.”

“By way of divulging her past to me.”

Loki shrugs.

Of course even when he is trying to do something kind, he will go about it in a scheming way.

 

Sif is about to close her door on Loki’s back when she hears him.

“For what it’s worth: I am glad that you are okay. And not just because of the grief it would cause my brother if you weren’t. In you, I see the best of her.”

She watches him walk away, and before he turns a corner, she says: “she would be proud of the choice you made”, and then finally does closes the door before she can see his reaction.

 

“He told you,” Brunnhilde tells her the next time she sees her, in the dining hall, after taking one good long look at her. There is no anger in her voice, and it sits weirdly with Sif. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, because there is nothing else that seems to be adequate.

“You aren’t responsible for him being a shit,” she replies, and sits next to her.

Sif hums, and although Brunnhilde doesn’t seem angered, she still feels like she owes her something, so she clears her own throat and speaks.

“When I was a young, naïve maiden, I used to believe I would marry Thor and be the queen of Asgard.”

Brunnhilde snorts.

Sif can’t help the pleased upturn of her lips.

“I don’t know how much of that dream was me, and how much of it was my mother.” After a couple of seconds, feeling like she owes more than she has given, she adds, “but I _was_ in love with him. And that was me, entirely. And when he left for Midgard and came back changed, it broke my heart.”

“I hear there was a woman there— Jane?”

Sif lets out a low murmur of assent, and looks down at her own clasped hands on the table.

“It was not that, though. Although that was certainly painful too.” She takes her time thinking over her next words, and when she can’t make them any prettier, even to herself, she just throws them out, an ugly confession, “it was him. It was how much he had grown, how much he had matured. 

“I have known him since we were both nothing more than toddlers crawling around our mothers’ skirts. I knew of his temperament, and of his impulsive behavior, and his thirst for glory above all things, and although it had occurred to me that those very things could lead him to his downfall, I had relegated those thoughts to a corner of my mind. I was joyous to follow his command, where it would take me, and do battle, even if it was unwise.”

She stops there, and when she lifts her gaze to look at Brunnhilde, she is watching her, avid. 

“He didn’t break my heart. _I_ broke my own heart, because although I felt as though I loved him, I don’t know if that was— I don’t know what that was. I don’t know that that was love at all. It feels smaller in comparison to the tales I get told. And then— and then I never felt anything like that again.”

Brunnhilde holds her gaze for a while after that, silent and intense. Around them the people break fast and make noise, talking and laughing and eating, living. And yet, it seems like everything is quiet, still, between them.

And then Thor’s friend, Korg, accidentally spills something all over the table, and them, and the spell is broken.

 

Things change between them, after that, as though that sort of quid pro quo had landed them on a different place altogether in their relationship. 

It’s not that the tension disappears, it’s that it takes a new form. It’s there, surrounding everything they do, everything they tell each other, but it’s not the only thing they share. The lingering gazes come with smiles, Brunnhilde’s flirting loses its rough quality, her smiles are less sharp. Sif smiles at her, feeling like she can now allow herself to, freely. 

They work better, too, with a new sort of understanding, and it benefits their charges greatly.

Mýrún (or Feisty, as Brunnhilde still calls her), leads her class by leaps, and Sif and Brunnhilde make it a habit to make her stay after everyone is gone, so they can better hone her skills.

(“It’s time to rebuild,” Brunnhilde had said when they had been last gathered in council, “it’s time to rise.”

She hadn’t needed to say more for everyone to understand the meaning in her words, and Thor had only nodded.

Loki, standing at Thor’s left, had cast a knowing glance her way, and she had barely resisted rolling her eyes.) 

And they work as one, teaching, advising, encouraging.

Sif settles into this like the fit of a commissioned gown, and she only notices when she looks to borrow words from Brunnhilde to answer a question on weapon choice from Mýrún. 

She turns to look at Brunnhilde, and Brunnhilde looks at her for a couple of seconds and takes it from there, saying exactly what Sif would have wanted to, if the words had only come to mind, and as Sif nods along and Mýrún looks between them both she realizes that things have _changed_.

Heimdall’s words come to mind ( _not every change has to be an end. Not every change has to lead to grief and despair)_ , and her stomach cramps with the intensity of the swirling feelings that set inside it, like overindulging on a feast.

( _This is what it feels like_ , a voice inside her trills, _this is what it feels like_.)

 

Heimdall doesn’t say a word when she invades his quarters without bothering to even knock and throws herself on his bed, as she had always done when she was a child and she felt that the only person in the realm who was fair to her was her brother.

She appreciates it, even although she can feel the weight of his gaze on her as she closes her eyes and attempts to chase all thoughts away.

 

There is this saying that she heard on Midgard, about bells that you can’t unring, and Sif thinks about it every day.

She eats breakfast, and Brunnhilde laughs at something the Hulk says, bright and loud, and Sif can’t take her eyes away.

Brunnhilde teaches Mýrún how to best an opponent who has size and bulk on her, and Sif’s hands are a clammy mess.

They sit together in the deserted hangar of the ship, a couple of bottles of something foul between them, and Sif loses herself in the stories Brunnhilde shares, bit by bit, like a treasure (“I’ve done shit I’m not proud of,” she says, and “I actually liked the night sky in Sakaar,” she says. 

She says, “some days I feel like I will never stop missing her.”)

Everything Brunnhilde does, Sif can’t stop taking note of, can’t help keeping track of, like a greedy little creature, hoarding every moment, every gesture, every sound.

 _Clang_ , the bell goes, louder than any other thought, _clang_.

 

The kiss comes as a natural progression, a logical next to step to this budding _something_ between them, but even then it sets shocks through her, as though Brunnhilde had stolen the thunder from Thor and made it hers. 

They are in the armory, and the lights are dimmed, and everyone else has left to get ready for supper, and Brunnhilde has a hand on her chest, pushing her against the wall, and then she’s on her tiptoes and brushing their lips together, a question.

And Sif? Sif is hungry for this, starved, so her answer is an arm around Brunnhilde’s waist, a hand cupping her cheek, and her lips on hers, firm, open, wet.

Brunnhilde pushes back into the kiss, and the way she _wants_ is so clear, so out in the open as she bites her bottom lip and tangles her fingers in Sif’s hair to yank her down so she can slot their mouths how she wants them. 

Sif gives as good as she gets.

 

The next morning, Thor won’t stop smirking at her, smug and childish, and Sif would glare at him if she wasn’t feeling so— so self-satisfied, with Brunnhilde’s arm touching hers, and one of her feet tangled around hers as she riles the Hulk up about something.

Besides, Thor looks— he looks weirdly self-satisfied too, and although she doesn’t want to think much about why that might be, she’s not above raising an eyebrow and smirking back. 

Thor laughs, and when he throws his head back to do it she can spot a dark bruise on the side of his neck— and just as she notices it, it fades away into nothingness, and then she’s looking to Thor’s side, where Loki sits sipping at his tea, face unreadable.

Yes, she thinks, turning her attention back to Brunnhilde, who is speaking with her mouth full, one hand making ample gestures that threaten to knock something over but won’t because she’s much more aware of everything that surrounds her than it appears like at any given moment, she doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Brunnhilde turns to her, then, and Sif drinks in the sight of her scrunched nose, her big smile, her crinkled eyes, alight with amusement.

She can’t help the kiss she drops on her lips, soft, lingering.

The bell tolls, inside her.

**Author's Note:**

> [Come hang out with me on tumblr!](http://memekon.tumblr.com)


End file.
